


A Clock That Never Strikes

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Depressing, Drama, Episode Related, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Love Triangles, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sad, Spoilers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Isaac, afterward.</p><p>WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE MOST RECENT EPISODE. <b>DO NOT READ</b> IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clock That Never Strikes

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from [this poem](http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Childhood.html) by Arthur Rimbaud.

* * *

 

Isaac's still shaking when they reach home. He smells of Allison, all over, and Scott understands what that means, but he can't be angry about it. Not now. Maybe not ever. The time for petty possessiveness has passed, and Scott had never been sure who he was jealous of, anyway.

Even though he's half-carrying Isaac up the stairs, he feels the phantom shape of Allison in his grasp, instead. He remembers how the life had just  _gone_  from her, between one breath and the next, her eyes dulling, losing their sheen. Her beautiful lips were slack, blood-flecked, and Scott hadn't kissed them goodbye, because he hadn't deserved to. He hadn't been able to keep her safe, the way she'd kept  _him_  safe, kept all of them safe.

"It's okay, Mom. It'll be okay," Scott tells his mother as she hovers anxiously at the door to Scott's bedroom, and there's a shocked pallor to her features. Scott's lying when he says it'll be all right, and Isaac must sense that lie, but he doesn't question it. Mom doesn't question it, either. She only closes the door behind her, softly, as if Scott's still four years old and a light sleeper, and she doesn't want to disturb him.

Isaac sits on Scott's bed and shakes hard enough that Scott worries, for a moment, that he's literally going to judder apart.

"Hey," Scott says, gently, because Isaac has to have felt Allison's loss even more keenly, having shared her warmth - her  _heat_  - less than a day before her death. Scott doesn't envy him that. "Take off your shirt. I've got to see how you're healing."

Isaac is unresponsive for a few seconds, staring blankly ahead, but then he shifts and tries to work his shirt off, his elbows catching clumsily in the sleeves. His usual gracefulness has fled, leaving his movements jerky and strange, like a masterless puppet's. Scott helps him shrug it off and then pushes Isaac down onto the mattress, running a palm down Isaac's bare chest.

The wound is mostly healed and will have vanished completely in another hour or so, but it must hurt, because Isaac whimpers and bats weakly at Scott.

"Shh, relax. I'll take your pain." The physical sort, at least. God knows neither of them will ever recover from the hollowness Allison's departure has carved into them.

Scott spreads his fingers over Isaac's heart and feels its unsteady, thready rhythm, that grows incrementally steadier as Scott siphons away the pain, his own veins growing dark. It hurts, like a searing burn sparking through his nerves, but Scott needs that hurt to center him, so he soaks it up, watching Isaac's breaths turn deeper and slower, watching Isaac's lashes flutter and his mouth part.

Isaac is on the verge of unconsciousness when Scott finally retreats - intending to move to the couch in the living room - but he hasn't even taken a single step before Isaac's hand shoots out and fists in Scott's T-shirt.

"D-don't go," Isaac rasps. He pulls, and Scott follows, until he's draped across Isaac, pressing him into the sheets.

Isaac wraps his arms around Scott, clinging to him as if Scott might leave, just like -

Just -

No.

Scott lets himself be held, aware of every tremor running through Isaac's limbs, and hopes his weight is grounding in the absence of Isaac's anchor, which has probably been Allison for the past couple of months. Scott buries his nose against Isaac's throat and inhales the remnants of Allison's scent, tangling his hands in Isaac's hair. He tilts Isaac's head to the side, exposing more of Isaac's throat, more of Allison's fading scent, mingled sharply with Isaac's terror-sweat.

When Scott bites, it's mostly to claim some of Allison for himself, by claiming Isaac, first. When Isaac shudders and voices a low, broken moan, Scott hushes him and carries on, careful not to break the skin, but marking Isaac, anyhow. Scott's fangs are likely leaving reddish indentations along Isaac's neck, and as Isaac's hips start rocking up to meet his, Scott rocks back. Isaac is long and slender and strong beneath him, and Scott thinks:  _This is the body that mated with Allison. This is the body that last gave her pleasure._

It makes him come, bitter and sweet and betrayed and relieved, and he doesn't know what he's feeling, anymore. He can't dwell on Kira, because she's everything summery and bright, and this is the coldest winter, the darkest night. He doesn't want to bring her into it, doesn't want the shadows in him to envelop her, as well.

Several minutes later, Isaac comes in his jeans, too. The air thickens with the saltiness of semen, and the tension in Isaac's muscles is gradually replaced with the heaviness of encroaching sleep.

Scott kisses him, because he has to taste Allison there, before even this lingering essence of hers disappears. Isaac allows it, drifting off as Scott licks into him, and he's out like a light by the time Scott finishes. Scott levers himself off Isaac, gingerly, and drags both their jeans off so he can clean up the matching messes they've made with the tissues on the bedside table.

After that, he settles over Isaac again, and wonders why he hasn't cried, why Isaac hasn't cried, either. Scott imagines them standing side by side at Allison's funeral, imagines the lines of grief worn even further into Chris's face - but he still can't get himself to cry, although there's a building pressure behind his eyes and an ache in his jaw from clenching it too tight. The thought of burying Allison is surreal, distant, something from someone else's life, someone else's story. Not his.

Tomorrow, he'll be waking up in a world without Allison Argent. Perhaps that's why he can't fall asleep.

 

* * *

**fin.**

 


End file.
